


Don't Stand So Close To Me

by Momo21



Category: One Direction
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, High School, M/M, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, flirty banter, holy shit zayn in a 2017 1d fan fic, idk yet, will there be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momo21/pseuds/Momo21
Summary: Harry is a miserable second semester, high school senior. He loves English, but he has a bad case of senioritis and was hoping for an easy A this semester. Might not happen with a new teacher. The young, nerdy, oh-so attractive Mr. Tomlinson will be taking on Mrs. Duff's position after some student-teacher misconduct rumors got her fired. Will Mr. Tomlinson follow in his predecessor's foot steps? Where will the line be drawn?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahahahaha thought you saw the last of me.  
> Who knows if I'll return to my old fic, it's just so hard to write when I started it in like 2013/2014 and it's the last haul of 2017. Like I can't even picture 2013 one direction anymore, which is sad, they were my favorite era.  
> Anyways, I've always had a thing for teachers--my theology teacher and senior year english teacher (who kinda inspired this, sadly nothing happened, but there was something i swear he said i was going places and let me come in his room to study even though he was closed and shared bagels with me) and my per-course English instructor last fall and we both just had this awkwardness when it was the two of us--also said i was going places and would always look at me to share pain when someone said something idiotic in class. It's no surprise The Professor is my favorite novel.  
> I love student/teacher fics, but they all run out the same, so i'm here to do something different, y'all. just wait. 
> 
> But yeah, idk if I should continue working on this, it might be a slow process but who knows i love teacher student shit so i might get really invested. if this gets enough kudos or if people do want me to continue i will
> 
> sorry if i forget to update, college is hard and harry and louis don't interact anymore so it's hard to get inspo

Second semester senior year isn’t supposed to be this suckish.

  
After rumors started to circulate that the senior English teacher, Mrs. Duff, had approached a student in a non-academic manner, she was investigated and fired. Chatter about who the new English teacher is going to be filled social media and the hallways. It’s bad enough that people are speculating which poor soul it was that Mrs. Duff assaulted, on top of it, people were already judging and betting on the substitute. Some were hoping for Mr. Whitney, a popular, old substitute who dismisses teaching assignments and plays movies in class instead. Others were thinking that there would be a new teacher all together because it was beginning of the second semester--why have a substitute when there’s going to have to be a new teacher regardless?

  
The minute winter break ended, I knew I would be dreading going back to school because this “scandal” was the only thing people wanted to talk about. People want to know who Mrs. Duff hit on, who is her replacement; this is a small, small town, everyone knows everyone and everything, it was odd to have questions no one could answer. I felt sympathy for whoever it was that got her fired because they would have to act like they knew nothing on the matter, just like everyone else, and the cycle would continue indefinitely.

  
It’s a shame that Mrs. Duff is a pedophile, she was a fantastic teacher. She made me love English to the point where I want to continue studying it in university and have a career in writing. She was the first to teacher to ever praise me for my talent, to make me feel as if I was worth something. She gave me the encouragement and motivation I needed to pass last semester. Hell, she wrote my recommendation letters for my college apps. It’s difficult for me to fathom that she would have done something of the sort. Then again, she was always a little too friendly with me when I stayed behind after class--rubbing my shoulders when I spoke to her about how stressed I was during finals week, suggesting coming to her house for extra help on my essay after school was closing for the day--red flags I never picked up on because of the false-sense of security she--as a teacher--gave me. Whoever her replacement was going to be had big shoes to fill in making me love coming to school.

  
Even though school started in twenty minutes, there wasn’t a single student that had heard anything about her replacement; no one was going to find out anything until her replacement started teaching. I would have had Mrs. Duff as my ‘British Classics’ teacher this semester. I’ve been excited to be in the class since my junior year, everyone who has taken it has only ever said great things about it: blow off class, all the books assigned also have movie adaptations, only two essays. Since Mrs. Duff has “taken her leave of absence,” I’m worried that the new teacher won’t have the same rules and expectations. Of course I want to study literature in uni, I would’ve loved the class even if it was all essay grades, but this is second semester of my senior year in high school. I don’t want to do shit. Just watch movies to books I’ll read later. Also, what if this new teacher won’t praise my works and validate me the way Mrs. Duff would’ve? My self-esteem will plummet if I get bad critiques, I’m not used to it. But, with that in mind, no one knows how the new teacher grades and I’ll have to put in extra effort in the first assignment just to see how many fucks I can give about the class.

  
                                                                                                     ---------------------------

  
Students began to file into the second floor classroom, the chatter got louder and louder, anticipation built from our school scandal was getting to the best of us. Class was already five minutes in and the teacher was nowhere in sight, not even a faculty member came in to explain that the substitute was going to be late. Just when a couple students were about to head out and skip because, “if they’re fifteen minutes late, class is cancelled,” the door opened and the room simultaneously held their breath, but it was just a student coming in late. Everyone went back to what they were doing before.

  
“Alright class, sorry for the wait. My orientation and tour went a bit longer than expected,” the new voice spoke. Heads swiveled to the front of the class where a young man was speedily setting his desk up, his name plaque refusing to stay up. He exhaled loudly and turned the face the class, his voice breaking everyone out of their daze. “Class! My name is Mr. Tomlinson, I’ll be Mrs. Duff replacement for the semester. I hope you treat me with the same amount of respect you would give Mrs. Duff; just because I’m young doesn’t mean I’m your buddy. Now,” his hands clapped together, “because I know literally no one here except for the principal, we’ll have to do some icebreakers.” Groans erupted in the class. “Oh, hush. That’s the thing that sucks entering second semester as the ‘new kid,’” he air-quoted, “even though you all know each other, I don’t,” he spoke rushed, but it was eloquent. He pronounced every syllable and enunciated clearly.

  
His eyes darted around the classroom, searching for the brave soul to start the game. All eyes were locked on him, trying to register how such a young, attractive person could be our teacher. And it wasn’t just that he was attractive, it was that he also had tattoos peaking out from underneath his cuffed-once button-up; it was that his cross-body bag was Marvel themed; it was that he had a cigarette behind his ear that I’m sure he forgot was there. He had all these grown-up characteristics, but he made them look so adolescent.

  
“I’ll go first. Why the hell not?” Niall spoke out in front of me. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Hey everybody, I’m Niall, I’m from Ireland, and I’m captain of the golf team, cheers!” There was soft laughter throughout the classroom as Niall plopped back down into his desk chair, smiling his goofy grin, head spinning around the classroom to look at everyone. He’s such a weirdo, but he’s great at initiating conversations. He refuses to let the conversation fall flat and silent.

  
I remember there was this one time our second year, I tried to ask an upper-classmate to formal, but she just stared at me, trying to understand why a second year was talking to her. The dead stare she was giving made Niall so uncomfortable that he started talking nonsense, accidently complimented her, made her laugh, and she asked him to formal. Humiliating, but that’s just the kind of guy Niall is.

  
“Great! Thank you, Niall! I’m sure I’ll remember you because of the accent. How about we just keep going back and zig-zag our way through the room, yeah?” Mr. Tomlinson’s posh voice echoed through my head, until Niall kicked my legs underneath my desk.

  
“Dude,” I whispered, “what the fuck?”

  
“It’s your turn, Harry. You’re next.” He “whispered” back. Kid doesn’t know how to whisper to save his life. I looked around the room and my classmates eyes were all on me, including Mr. Tomlinson’s.

  
“Harry is it? It’d be nice of you to join us in our childish name-games instead of staring off into space. Just say your name and a nice little fact about yourself. Then you can go back to what you were doing before,” Mr. Tomlinson’s sharp tone pierced through me, turning my entire face red as the rest of the class chuckled at his remarks.

  
“Yeah, yeah, right.” I pushed my chair back and stumbled a bit standing up; my entire body red and shaky from being called out. “H-hey,” I cleared my voice, “‘M Harry. I work at McClain’s bakery, I see most of you in there, buying cakes, and yeah,” my voice gave out in the end and I slowly sat down in embarrassment. I’m a literature student, not a communications.

  
“That wasn’t too hard, now was it?” Mr. Tomlinson snided as I placed my head on my table, praying for the torment to be over. And of course it was. By the time it had gotten to the middle of the room, no one--besides Niall--would’ve remembered my stuttering mess of words.

  
Though my mind was replaying my embarrassing moment over and over again, my eyes were following Mr. Tomlinson and how even with his hand resting near his mouth--ever so slightly biting his thumbnail--he would mouth back the student speaking’s name, mentally noting what name went to each face. He slowly strolled across the classroom, moving every time a new row of students were introducing themselves. I wonder if he carefully chooses his outfits every morning to look like a pretentious asshole, or if it comes naturally? I wonder what his tattoos are of, and where else he has them? The one peeking underneath the sleeve of his button-up and sweater looks like the bottom of an anchor. I wonder which obscure, mid-nineteenth century novel is his favorite? I wonder what brand of cigarettes he smokes?

  
It took the entirety of our forty-five minute class for everyone to introduce themselves. People probably drawled out on purpose so we wouldn’t actually do anything in class. As always, when the bell rang students were in the biggest rush of their life to get out the classroom. Mr. Tomlinson barely yelled the first reading assigned before the entire class evacuated.

  
He didn’t make any other snide remarks to any of the other students.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's a cheeky little boy who wants to know more--not for his own curiosity of course, but for the student body. I'ts not his fault he's constantly looking like a fool in front of him, its that he's always kind of a fool. Niall loses track of time when shopping, but makes up for it with burgers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola, been about a month, right? IDK how I feel about this chapter, so please tell me what you think. This doesn't have a lot of harry/louis interaction, it's more body and filler and plot stuff, so it doesn't feel like it's going fast. I hate it when it's monday and then it's friday in fics, i hate it.   
> It's a tad long, it was like 4 1/2 pages in google docs. It feels like a very basic school day fic writing and I kinda hate it. I'm just bad at writing time, I think. I hate writing like "i woke up, i went to lunch, i went to bed and hoped for a better day" kind of shit, but this kinda feels like it to me. Also, i'm kind suckish at dialogue.  
> Idk, let me know please. feedback is appreciated, even if it's like "love it, keep it up" or "wow this is garbage" i appreciate all of it, even the bad stuff--esp. the bad stuff, so i know what to work on when editing and writing in the future

As first days back go, it was pretty entertaining. Sure as hell didn’t beat the time when Molly Cusker went over the intercom first day of junior year and came out to the entire school during mid-day homeroom. But at least it wasn’t a repeat of the first day of school last term; they announced a change in the handbook--seniors could no longer leave campus for lunch. People had already started investigating Mr. Tomlinson’s personal life because he’s not from our town of Holmes Chapel--he’s an enigma to us all. Where is he from? When did he come here? Why did he come here? What kind of kinky shit is he into? All questions people needed to know the answers to, but couldn’t find them. Mr. No Name Tomlinson is non existent online. It’s amazing, someone in this day and age was able to erase their entire existence online, especially someone as young as Mr. Tomlinson. He can’t be older than 26, which makes it even weirder that a millennial such as him doesn’t have a Facebook profile. All that was found was a LinkedIn profile stating the bear minimum. Whatever his damage is, though, I give it a week till it’s exposed. 

My theory is that he’s probably from Surrey, and got his degree in 18th century poetry at Cambridge or Oxford or Warwick. Which is where he became “cultured” and lost some poshness, but retained most of it through his love of old literature. And now he spends his weekends annotating cheap novels he finds at the half-price book store, and filling out the commuters crossword every morning while drinking a piping hot cup of Earl Grey tea. I can picture it all. And quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind doing the same. It’s kind of upsetting I’ll only get to know him for the one semester, I feel like he could be one of those teachers that has a “select group of student friends” that eats lunch with him. 

I heard that along with the Brit Lit class I have him as a teacher in, he’s taken up two other classes: Creative Writing and History Through Shakespeare. Both of his classes are for upperclassman, but his Shakespeare class is for advanced students with a certain GPA. I opted out of the Shakespeare class because it seemed like it would’ve been too much work for my senior year, but if I’d known he’d be teaching it, completely different story. I think he’ll be a fantastic teacher, he has the kind of voice that doesn’t make lectures boring. And even in the dumb ice breakers he made us do, he was engaging with us, unlike most other teachers. Though, it’s kind of bull crap that he assigned three chapters of  _ Jekyll and Hyde  _ the first day back, especially since I don’t own it, and especially since someone already copped it at the library. 

I waited for Niall to finish with golf club since said he’d take me to Half-Price Books afterwards. I was lounging in the library hoping to get an hour nap in before Niall came and got me when I heard Mr. Tomlinson’s distinct voice echoing in the hall outside of the library. I hadn’t seem him loitering around the school since first period. Obviously, his voiced peaked my interest since he said he had only known one other person at the school, and that was the principal, so who was he being so cordial with? Quietly, I zipped up my belongings, put my backpack on and stood by the door to eavesdrop. To my favor, they decided to stop and chat right in front of the door as all teachers do for some reason. They scold us for talking in class, but they’ll be hollering in the hallways during class period if they don’t have a class. 

I looked around the library to make sure no one saw me being next-level creepy, luckily, no one besides sports teams are at school past three. Even the littlest bit of information about Mr. Tomlinson would be enough to ease some of this mystery drama floating around school. Plus, I could probably sell what I hear to needs-to-know-everything Amber  Kowalski in exchange for my math homework for two weeks. I hovered my head close to the crack of the two swing doors.

“...The best feminist analysis essay I had ever written, and it was over  _ Mrs. Dalloway _ . How more cliche can it get? Everyone wrote their essay using a feminist lens, and I thought I was doing something no one has ever done,” Mr. Tomlinson’s voice wailed in disparity. Why does he say that like it’s a bad thing, I thought.  _ Mrs. Dalloway _ is a fantastic book, it highlights how heteronormativity and forced gender roles can lead a person to live in a dissociative state for the rest of their life, whilst repressing everything they used to like after learning it’s not acceptable; causing severe depression and suicide because they can no longer find joy. So what if he wrote a cliche paper? A paper is a paper. It doesn’t matter if you take the “easy” lens or thesis, as long as it’s well thought out and supported. What kind of English teacher is he? If something is a cliche, then it just means it’s the most widely accepted theory, this fucking a--

“Oh, I completely understand. I had to take a Greek Epics course for one of my cores and, while I was a sociology major and not an English, I was just writing the most generic essays. I couldn’t bother trying to challenge myself for a gen ed,” a female voice spoke out. Wait? Miss. Calder? 

“That’s the beauty of being in the English department; even when you don’t challenge yourself and take the slacker route, your essays still sound like your best when it’s really no where close to your personal standards.” 

“Then, as an expert slacker I guess you’re able to tell when a student doesn’t give it their all in an assignment?” Miss. Calder questioned. Her heels were rocking back and forth on the cheap tile floor. 

“Well,” Mr. Tomlinson dragged out. “I’m not a professional bull shit detector, but there are always assignments that you can just tell. It also helps if you know the students and their work ethic beforehand.”

“If you’re looking for background on students, I can help you with that,” Miss. Calder suggested. “Just tell me who is in your class and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I had to teach the entire senior class last year in government; also the most popular class to gossip in.” She’s not wrong. Because you have to take it your junior year, the classroom is packed to capacity, everyone’s desks are touching. It’s impossible not to talk during her boring lectures. 

“Please, I’d appreciate it,” Mr. Tomlinson sighed. “There’s so much I feel like I’m missing out on. Completely detached from the social order. How am I supposed to know and memorize social hierarchy of high school within six hours,” he joked. 

“Easy. Just gotta recognize who the top bachelor is and then everything falls to--” a sudden hand grabbed my shoulder.

“Mr. Styles what are you doing in the library? School is out,” Mrs. Morris, the librarian, confronted in a very non-library-esque voice. I was so taken aback, I went to place my hand on the door, only to have it swing open from the force. The door swung open revealing Mr. Tomlinson and Miss. Calder innocently standing there, and I fell right in front of them. 

“I’m sorry,” I finally got some words out, struggling to find my feet on the ground, “hope I wasn’t interrupting, I was just trying to leave, and I, uh, tripped.” Silence filled the air. I looked at the two of them, nodded a goodbye, kept my head down, and attempted to leave before it got more awkward.

“Wait!” a male voice called out, it sounded scratchy, like it’s smoked one too many cigarettes. “You’re in my Brit Lit class, right?” I stopped in my track and turned around. 

“Yeah?” He took some steps forward, looking me straight in the eye, like adults do.

“I’ve been in a frenzy all day. I didn’t make a proper syllabus last night for my classes since this was such a last minute offer. I’ve been writing down on some loose leaf my plans, but I’ve misplaced them. I can’t recall what I assigned for your Brit Lit class, do you by any chance remember?” He looked so helpless. His eyes were filled with plea and despair. He is obviously not prepared for this job, he was not given the correct amount of the time to prepare. Hell, he wasn’t given any time. He’s as lost as the first years. I did a quick glance at the rest of him, noticing now that his collar is unbuttoned with his tie loosened down. The cigarette behind his ear is missing; instead of one behind his ear, he’s trying to discreetly hold his pack from me. He’s so ready to go home, but knows that if can’t remember what assigned, he’s still unable to make any sort of syllabi for tomorrow. I clear my throat, and try my best to look at him in the eyes and speak at him the same way he did, but my eyes would wander because the prolonged eye contact was so uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, you, uh, assigned the first three chapters of  _ Jekyll and Hyde.  _ That’s actually why I was in the library, I was, uh, looking to see if we had a copy. Someone else beat me to it, though,” I expressed. Mr. Tomlinson pulled out a notebook no bigger than the size of his phone and wrote down what I said and grinned. 

“Thank you so much! This helps more than you would imagine,” his smile reached his eyes, crinkling at the edges. 

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Tomlinson,” I flashed a short smile back and started my way out.

“And I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry,” Mr. Tomlinson called back, I could hear him start his conversation with Miss. Calder backup. I’d be lying if I said hearing him remember my name didn’t make me smile. 

 

                                                                                                             ___________________________

 

After my short talk with Mr. Tomlinson, I still had to wait for Niall to finish his club activities, but if I waited inside I would risk running into Mr. Tomlinson again, and would have another awkward conversation as to “why I am still at school.” So, I waited on the hood of his car. Sure it was freezing outside, but I don’t really mind the cold. No later than ten minutes, Niall was calling me to let me know he was finished and was heading over. I was about to tell him I was on his car when I hear him say on the other side, “who’s that bloke on my car?”

“That ‘bloke’ is me,” I chuckled and turned my head and saw him walking this way. I hung up on him and slid off the hood. 

“What d’ya think you’re doing on the hood of my car, huh,” he nudged me as he unlocked and got in his car. 

“I felt weird waiting inside an empty school,” I shrugged and got in the passenger side, both of us threw our backpacks in the back.

“Wait,” he turned to face me, “you were out here the entire time? I was in practice for two hours! Jesus, are you cold blooded or something?” he exclaimed.

“No, no. I was in the library for the majority of it. I came out here like ten minutes ago. Don’t worry, I’m not a snake,” I assured him.

“You may not be cold blooded, but you’re still a snake,” he grinned and started the car. We talked nonsense on our way to the bookstore, singing off-key to the radio’s top 40 when the chorus to whatever catchy song playing came up. Niall kept telling me to join the golf club because of the rounds we played together at his country-club over winter break, but I kept saying no due to the fact that I refuse to participate in after school activities. We pulled up to the bookstore and was outside for nearly 15 minutes looking at the half-a-pound shitty paperback books, making fun of the cover art on the cheesy erotica and sci-fi novels. 

The inside of bookstores always makes me feel at ease. Especially half-price book stores. The smell of used books and music, the genuine, book-loving people, it comforts me. I come here so often that the majority of the workers have started to recognize me and often recommend and lend me books based on what they’ve seen me buy. Even though I’ve already read  _ Jekyll and Hyde,  _ I don’t own the book. I always hate buying cliche classics at the store because it just makes me feel basic. I feel like they judge me for buying such an over-hyped, classic book--like there are better, non-basic novels to read. But you know what? They’re a cult-classic for a reason, there’s a reason why those books are taught in school, they’re fundamental and give insight on how a person in a certain  time period saw their society and class system. There hasn’t been any novel that’s been proclaimed to be the next “Great American or British Novel” in a couple decades. No one has achieved capturing the essence of the life of a nation in a highly metaphorical fashion. They had a couple copies of  _ Jekyll and Hyde  _ left on the shelf, just the kind of shabby ones left--I guess our classmates beat us to the shelves. 

We head our way up to take our already horribly annotated, torn up books to the register as Niall keeps pointing out and running over to all the  _ Game of Thrones, Harry Potter,  _ and _ Star Wars _ trinkets they have out. 

“Look! Look!  _ Game of Thrones _ Monopoly! Awh, man, we should get this and do board game weekend!” Niall exclaimed. 

“Niall, please can you hurry it up,” I whined, “I want to go home, it’s already 6:30pm! I’m missing dinner!”

“Shut your whining, I’ll buy you a burger,” he clapped back. However, he did make his way to the register queue after my comment. After paying a whopping  £2.70 for the paperback, I kept pushing him towards the door, blocking anything that might make him interested and want to stay longer, so he could drive me home. Don’t get me wrong, I love hanging out with Niall, but it was a school day--the first day back--and I really just wanted to go home, do my homework, and go to sleep. 

Niall kept his promise, and did buy me a Bender in a Bun with Cheese and a side of chips from Wimpy’s, so at least he’s got that going for him. On the way home, Niall kept mentioning in-between bites of a party our friend, Zayn, was having this weekend in honor of welcoming our final term as high schoolers. 

“It’s going to be sick! Please tell me you’re going, Haz,” Niall said. 

“I mean, I probably will. It all depends on how things pan out this week, and if I’m up for it Friday night,” I shrugged. Niall let out an exasperated sigh.

“Mate, you’re going. None of this, ‘if I feel like going out, I will,’ bullshit. We all graduate in, like, 4 months or something. You have to do everything with us, ‘cause next fall, we’ll all be going our separate ways,” Niall stated. He’s not wrong, I really should be doing everything with my friends while I can so I can make fun memories, but being the introvert I am I just can’t some days. Niall never understands it, but going to school and talking to people five days a week for six hours, plus my part-time job fifteen hours a week, it’s too much socializing for me. I need to have my “me days.” 

“I’ll think about it. I really will. But, please for the love of God, do not show up to my house on Friday at 9:00pm if I say, ‘no’,” I explained. I’m looking at him while he’s driving, pleading with my eyes. There’s a pause in our conversation. He looks back and forth between me and the road.

“No promises, you sour puss.” Niall pulls up into my driveway, “now get out. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bright and early.” He waits till I get inside to drive off, where I’m immediately asked where the hell I was by a disheveled woman in scrubs packing leftovers away.

“Sorry, mum. I had to wait for Niall so he could take me to the bookstore,” I sling my backpack on the couch and walk into the kitchen to hug and greet her. 

“You could’ve called at the very least,” she says with her arm wrapped around my mine. 

“I know, I didn’t think we’d be there that long. It left my mind,” I say. I grab a sports drink from the fridge and lean against the counter.

“Well, how was the first day back?” She asks, her hands mindlessly cling-wrapping the pork chops I didn’t get to eat.

“Eh, same old, same old,” I shrugged.

“Oh!” She closes the fridge door and turns to look at me. “Was the Mrs. Duff replacement there yet, or have they not yet decided on a teacher?”

“They got a teacher, young guy, not from here. He seems cool.”

“Young? How young?

“I don’t know. Maybe 25? I’m not good with ages,” I think back to Mr. Tomlinson’s soft face, framed by his feathery-styled hair. He could honestly pass for 18 if he didn’t have a trail of tattoos on him. 

“Hmm, do you think he’ll be a good teacher? Or do you think he’ll be intimidated by the students since he’s close in age?” Mom leans on the counter opposite of me, popping the cold, roasted baby carrots in her mouth. 

“He seems like a pretentious hard-ass,” I picture his rolled up, button-up and pull over sleeves and posh voice, “I mean, what kind of teacher assigns three chapters on the first day?” I asked, already knowing the answer are teachers not knowing a clue what they’re doing. 

“Three chapters? Well, don’t stay here chattin’ with me. Go read,” Mom brushed her hands together and shooed me away. She pulls the cling wrap back over the bowl of carrots, and puts it back in the fridge. I slouch my shoulders and head out of the kitchen to grab my bag, and head to my room down the hall. 

_ Jekyll and Hyde _ is a small book, and--having read it once before--a fast read. The rest of the night, I scroll through my phone aimlessly--replying to SnapChats, scrolling through Instagram and Twitter, playing rounds of Word Cookies--since literally no other teacher assigned anything. A message from Niall popped up on my screen asking what the hell this book is about. I rolled my eyes and replied back saying, “Doctor with split personalities plays God. Doctor tries to cure his evil side. Doctor transforms into evil personality. Doctor makes more potion to try to stay as true self. Doctor runs out and stays as evil personality forever.” His three dots appear on the screen and stay there for longer than it should take for him to say, “ok.” The boy is probably still confused. 

I rolled over to my side and turn off the lamp, but my mind wasn’t ready to go to sleep. Instead, every time I closed my eyes, Mr. Tomlinson’s smiling face from when I crashed in front of him when eavesdropping on him and Miss. Calder in the hallway kept showing up. His tilted, thin smile that reached his eyes. How animated his face was when I read off the assignment he gave us--filled with relief and excitement. I could see him loosening his tie and collar, having it the way it was when he was getting ready to go home. I kept picturing the bits of ink that was peeking out from his sleeve, imagining what else he could have, where else they could be. My mental camera roll was stuck on his arms from when he leaned back on his desk, hands gripping the edges of it, making his veins and muscles become more prominent. 

Fuck. I’m fucked. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO I'M BACK WITH THAT IRREGULAR SCHEDULE.   
> I was initially going to stop, but a lovely reader named koritsi21 said she was still interested. I know I said I'd have this out like three weeks ago, but the end of the semester is hitting me hard rn--i actually wrote three pages of this instead of my 6 page lit paper that i need to finish tonight since I have to go to a formal tomorrow.   
> Anyways here it is, Idk how i feel about it, it's kinda jumpy, and super long, and feels like a lot of filler. idk

After calling and waiting thirty minutes for Niall to come pick me up for school, and him not coming, I had to walk in the cold to school. Which is about a thirty minute walk from my house. He is so dead. He better have the best goddamned excuse for making me be outside in almost freezing temperatures for over an hour. By the time I got to school, first period was already over, which was fine with me since it was trigonometry. People were walking to their next class as I was was walking in. I shuffled into the main office and explained what happened to the school’s secretary as she wrote up my late slip. She stopped mid-writing and looked up at me with with disbelief.

“You were outside in this weather? Walking against the wind? For an hour?” She gapped.

“More or less, yeah,” I sniffled and rubbed my nose. “Niall usually picks me up in the mornings, but he’s M.I.A. And mum’s at work so I couldn’t ask her. It’s fine though, I just need my toes to warm back up and I’ll be good.” 

At first, all she responded with was an expression of  _ are you fucking kidding me.  _ Her eyes rolled, “Sit your butt down. I’m having the nurse come get you so you can lay down in her office till second period is over. Plus, she has blankets to wrap your frozen bones in.” I wasn’t one to say no to missing a class, so I promptly sat my butt down. Even though I’ve been in the heated building for almost ten minutes, I still couldn’t feel my toes. You never realize how cold or drunk you are until you have to sit down and stand back up. The minute I sat down, I swear my joints locked up.

The nurse came into the office to help walk me down to her’s. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders, rubbing them vigorously, trying to get my blood flowing again. It was a struggle to stand back up and move again. 

“Jesus, boy, why would you even think it would be a good idea to walk that far in the cold? Hasn’t your mother taught you better?” She questioned.

“I just didn’t want to be that senior who misses the second day back,” I mumbled. It was more of a pride thing, really. I didn’t want any of my teachers to think I already had “senioritis” and look down on me in class. I mean, I do have senioritis, but like I can manage it through bullshiting assignments that make it seem like I tried, when in reality if I did try it’d be 100x better. She opened the door to her office and motioned me to sit on the recliner while she pulled out some blankets. 

Nurse Murphy is basically a glorified stay-at-home mum. I’m sure she has some sort of qualifications in the medical field, but her medical advice is always, “go to the bathroom, take some ibuprofen, and lay down.” You could go to her saying you think you have appendicitis and want to go to the hospital, and all she’d tell you to do is to lay down, and wait for the ibuprofen to kick in as she debates calling your parents. But when it comes to something like, “I feel a little sick,”  or, “My stomach hurts,” her mum instincts kick in. She burrito wraps you in blankets and microwaves condensed, chicken-noodle soup, notifying all your teachers that you may miss their class because you’re feeling under the weather. 

When we get to her office, there’s two empty lounge chairs and a couple extra padded fold-out chairs for students to rest in. She guides me over to the comfy lounge chair by the window and places a knitted blanket she probably made over me. 

“What class are you supposed to be in right now, love?” she asked, checking my temperature with the back of her hand on my forehead.

“World history with Miss. Brummel,” I croaked out--exaggerating the condition of my voice a bit. She frowned a little, patted my leg, and said she’d contact her right away. Once she sent the email to her, she swiveled in her chair and asked again if there really wasn’t anyone to pick me up to go home. 

“I wish,” I sighed, “Niall is usually the only one who can take me to school, I don’t know where he was this morning.”

“Niall Horan?” Mrs. Murphy questioned.

“That’s the bloke.”

“Just because you’re in here doesn’t mean you don’t have to watch your language,” she pointed sternly. She picked up the notepad on her desk. “Niall’s mum called this morning saying he was in ill. I’m surprised she didn’t contact you since you’re his carpool.” 

I stared at Nurse Murphy in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? Karen would never do that, she always calls me when he can’t pick me up.” My head fell back on the lounge chair, staring at the ceiling. Nurse Murphy had a pained expression on her face. 

“Lemme give her a ring, just to make sure.” After searching through parent contacts, she pulls up Karen’s info and calls her, two rings pass till she answers. It’s muffled through the phone, but once I heard Karen’s gasp something about my name, the phone was handed over to me.

“Harry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry I didn’t even think to call you. You poor thing, this is all my fault. I’ll tell Steven that I have to take my lunch a bit early to come get y--,” Karen rambled, but I cut her off.

“Karen, you don’t have to do that, I’m sure once my body warms back up again I’ll be fine for class, don’t take off work because of me,” I assured her. Karen is practically a second mum to me. After a couple more apologies, she hung up and I gave the phone back to Nurse Murphy. 

“Are you sure you didn’t want her to come get you,” Nurse Murphy asked concerned.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I bounce back quickly,” I smiled. 

“Well, even if you can’t go to classes at all today, I’ll email your teachers to tell them why you’re absent. Get some rest, love.” And with that, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

\----------------------------

I woke up to the sound of laughter. Laughter with a hint of arrogance to it. I started to reposition my body in the recliner and slowly opened my eyes, only to see Mr. Tomlinson on the other side of the small infirmary chatting up Nurse Murphy. 

“Okay, sweetie, take two of these ibuprofens, and this box of Kleenax. You should start feeling better by the end of day since you’re taking care of this cold in the early stage,” Nurse Murphy prescribed Mr. Tomlinson. 

“Thank you, Mary. You’re a life-saver,” he thanked. He tilted his head back and dry swallowed his medicine.

“Oh, Harry!” Nurse Murphy exclaimed, “I didn’t realize you were up! How you feeling, love?” She jotted over to my chair and immediately placed the back of her cold hand to my forehead. “Still a little warm,” she stated. She pulled up her sleeve to check the time. “You still have to wait an hour before you can take some more medicine; you can just stay here for the rest of the day, I don’t want you to over-exert yourself.”

“For the rest of the day? I don’t think that’ll fly with me, Mary,” Mr. Tomlinson spoke from the back of the room. “I got him in my last class, I’d like to hear Mr. 4.0’s input on  _ Dr. Jekyll _ ,” he smirked. 

“Sorry, Mr. Tomlinson, but I don’t think Nurse Murphy would allow a sick boy like me to participate in discussion,” I said, finishing with a cough at the end to seal the deal. Nurse Murphy’s hand stroked my cheek and coddled me like her own son.

“He’s right, Louis,” Louis? His first name is Louis? Why is that so fitting? “Harry, here, is far too ill to go to classes, I’m worried he caught pneumonia walking in that cold,” Nurse Murphy stated, tucking my blanket back into the folds of the recliner. 

“Yeah, sorry, Louis, can’t make it,” I teased.

“It’s ‘Mr. Tomlinson’ for you,” he sternly said, his lively, mischievous face fell to a blank stare. “Just make sure you read the next three chapters by tomorrow for discussion, there’s going to be an in class writing over the first six,” his voice was as sharp as a knife; his eyes never broke contact with mine. The atmosphere in the infirmary quickly changed, Nurse Murphy even gave me a concerned look. Mr. Tomlinson’s head turned to Nurse Murphy’s. “Thank you, again, for the medicine and Kleenax, but I must be going,” he gave a short, forced smile and a pitiful wave as he turned around and walked out. 

“Never have I ever seen a teacher get so bent on a student using their first name, jeez,” Nurse Murphy stated. That was the end of that. She got up from the side of my chair and moved to her desk chair, pulling up BuzzFeed on her desktop to take some quizzes. 

I threw my head back against the chair, baffled that he actually got pissed at that. He called me ‘Mr. 4.0’ I thought we were playfully teasing, if felt like flirting, what did I miss? The time on the clock read 13:46, Mr. Tomlinson’s Brit Lit class starts at 14:20, I bet I could convince Nurse Murphy to let me leave so I could apologize to him in person. I’m sure if I explain why--leaving out the flirting part--he’d understand and forgive me, plus I can always blame the slight fever I have. 

“Nurse Murphy?” I called out.

“Hmm?” She was heavily fixated on a “What Kind of Pasta are You?” quiz.

“I was wondering if I could actually leave to attend my last class. I really enjoy literature, and I want to apologize to Mr. Tomlinson.” She took her eyes off the screen and placed them on me.

“As long as you take two more ibuprofens before then since it’ll have been four hours since you first took some, I think you should be fine. Just try not to overexert yourself, I was joking about that pneumonia, but you still have a cold--a bad one, ” she stated.

“Thanks, I’ll do my best,” I said. 

The 35 minutes seemed to last forever, I kept refreshing the apps on my phone, but because everyone was being good little students and paying attention in class, nothing new was popping up and it was agonizing. When that bell rang, I threw the knitted blanket off of me, dry swallowed those pills, and practically sprinted to Mr. Tomlinson’s class across the building so I could apologize before class started in five minutes. I didn’t want to awkwardly sit in his class for 40 minutes with an uneasy air between us. I fell into the door frame, out of breath and weak from running and the cold. 

“Mr. Tomlinson?” I huffed out, my arms barely holding me up in the frame. Mr. Tomlinson turned around. 

“Harry, do you really think it’s the best idea to be running to class in your condition?” He asked, walking over to guide me into a chair. I slumped down into my desk, his hand still on my back for support.

“I needed to apologize--I didn’t--mean to--offend you,” I barely got the words out in-between breaths. I didn’t have the strength to look at him, I could barely keep my head up. But I did hear a sigh and hand from behind me slipped away as I felt his presence turn. 

“We’ll discuss this after class,” he said, walking back up to his desk and sorted out the material for today. Loud students began to file into class and take their seats. I re-positioned myself in my desk, sniffled, and stared out the window. I’m risking my health right now, sure it’s just a cold, but I’m risking my health to apologize, and he wouldn’t even hear it. Not until after class. And now I have to sit through class with that uneasy air that I didn’t want to have in the first place. 

Obviously, I didn’t pay attention. Mr. Tomlinson may have said that he wanted to hear my input on the first two chapters, but everytime he asked a question, he glanced over at me, almost like he wanted to call on me and force me to participate. But he never did. The final bell of the day rang and those students couldn’t run out any faster, but I stayed seated, waiting for Mr. Tomlinson to come over so I could properly apologize. I couldn’t have the one teacher in the one class I’m actually going to enjoy this semester hate me on day two. I slumped in my seat as I watched him gather his material up and put it in his crossbody bag. He slung it on his shoulder and made his way back to my desk. 

“Do you know why I was so offended when you called me by my first name?” he asked, looking down at me slouching in my chair.

“Because you’re a teacher, and I should treat you with respect at all times,” I replied.

“If you know that, why did you still use my first name? Do you know how hard it is for a new, young teacher to earn the respect of his students? They feel most entitled to call a teacher by their first name if they’re close in age, and I’m not here to be friends with the senior class, okay? I’m here to be a teacher, and I want that respect,” he ranted, his breath a little short. 

“I know, so let me ask you this: treat me with respect too. Day one you called me out in front of the class, and used a ‘nickname.’ Today, you called me ‘Mr. 4.0’ and I’m more than my GPA. I thought we were all just having some fun in the infirmary, but if that’s how you want me to treat you, I can only ask for the same,” I deadpanned him. It’s only fair. I thought he’d be a different teacher, sure it’s been only one day, but he gave off that vibe of, ‘come talk to me about anything! I’m a fun, relatable teacher!’ but apparently, he wants nothing to do with us. 

Mr. Tomlinson let out a deep sigh, “Jesus Christ, day two of teaching and I already have a bad relationship with one of my students,” he cupped his mouth and nose with his hand and dragged it down as he looked around the room. I stared and said nothing, he gets to deal with this. He turned to face me again, but didn’t say anything, just stared at me. I guess it’s my turn to sigh and make some dramatic statement. I stood up out my desk and faced him, standing a couple inches over him.

“Mr. Tomlinson, I’m really am sorry. It felt right ot say it, the atmosphere felt like friendly banter. And I hope you know I’m joking about only calling me by my name. I know you want the respect of all your students, but you have to remember: these are seniors in their last semester, they honestly don’t care about anything anymore,” I said, his face fell after hearing what he didn’t want to hear. “You do have my respect though,” I ended. 

“Thank you, Harry, I appreciate it,” he half-smiled, but it quickly fell back to resting face. 

“Glad we had this chat, Mr. Tomlinson, I feel like it’s good to establish some boundaries, especially since I feel like I’ll learn a lot from you and this class. I’m excited for this semester,” I said, but the sentiment was overthrown by a big sneeze that I, fortunately, caught in my elbow. 

“That is going to be one nasty cold to get over,” Mr. Tomlinson grimaced and let out a small chuckle. “Better not miss my class tomorrow because of it.” His posture had seemingly got more relaxed: hands in pockets, shoulders slouched, moving from foot to foot. I rolled my eyes and grabbed a Kleenax from the box Nurse Murphy gave me in my backpack. 

“You know,” I sniffled, “I keep trying to be nice, but you’re making it hard with those remarks,” I smirked, and blew my nose. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, “you better get home to get some rest, I’m serious about you not missing class.” I slung my backpack on my back, and waved for him to lead the way out. It was a little walking out with him, the conversation we had was so awkward, it basically went through the five stages of grief. 

We were walking side by side, I occasionally glanced over at him--his profile is stunning. His fingers kept twiddling, looks like someone needs their ‘afterschool smoke,’ which made me chuckle. 

“Something funny to you?” He asked.

“No, no. Just thought of something,” I saved. We got to the front door when I realized I never told Karen that I would need a ride home. “Shit,” followed by some heavy coughs that did not make me look better. Mr. Tomlinson stopped in his tracks, and turned to look at me with a quizzical look.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just gotta call someone to give me a lift,” I rummaged through my backpack for my phone and dialed Karen, and of course, no answer. “Christ,” I ran my hand through my hair, let out another cough, and dialed again. Mr. Tomlinson looked around.

“If you can’t find a ride back, I’d be more than willing to give you a lift,” his hand was rubbing the side of his neck, making it obvious that he’s actually unsure about doing that. 

“You won’t have to do that Mr. Tomlinson, I don’t want to get you in any kind of trouble. I’m sure Karen will pick up, or will connect the dots that I’ll need a ride after this morning,” I assured, and also sent Karen a text asking to pick me up. 

“Then the most I can do is wait with you,” he took a seat in one of the chairs outside of the main office, “to make sure you don’t pass out or anything, you know,” he rambled and looked in a different direction. I rolled my eyes and took a seat as well. 

“You don’t have to do that, I know you’re itching to have that after school smoke.” 

Mr. Tomlinson turned his head to look at me, and in a hushed voice, “How do you know about that?”

“Your fingers have been fidgeting since the bell rang,” I chuckled. “Plus, yesterday, you showed up to your first day of classes with a cigarette behind your ear.” His eyes grew wide.

“I had what?” he exclaimed and buried his head in his hands. “You can’t tell anyone about what’s happening right now, okay?” he muffled through his hands. 

“Don’t want your students to lose respect for you?” I teased.

“Oh, Shut up!” he laughed. My phone buzzed. Karen texted me saying she was on her way, and would be there in five. 

“Well, lucky for you, you can ease that itch in about five minutes,” I said. 

“Thank you, Harry,” he thanked me looking straight into my eyes. It sent chills down my back. “Hopefully you can get home quick to to ease that cold of yours.”

“Fingers crossed.” After that the conversation grew silent--minus my sniffles, and light coughing, and we both sat respectfully on our phones and waited for Karen to come.

Sure enough, five minutes pass and Karen’s black Mini Cooper comes flying to the front of the school and lets out a long honk. 

“Well, my undertaker is here,” I stand up and Mr. Tomlinson follows. We walk out together.

“Have a nice night, Harry! Hope you start feeling better!” Mr. Tomlinson calls out when he turns into the direction where his car is parked. I do a short wave back, knowing I probably don’t have the vocal range at the moment to call back. 

I sluggishly get into Karen’s car, and she’s staring at me with that look. You know the one. The one all mothers give their kids when they’re seen talking to someone they don’t know.

“Who was that?” Karen asks as she pulls out of the lot.

“My English teacher,” I say.

“Quite young and attractive to be a teacher, don’t’cha think?” She pushes.

“Hmm, I guess.”

“Looks just like your type,” she carries on.

“Karen!” I say, mortified. “That’s Niall and I’s teacher, have some respect,” I say, smirking at the end after saying ‘respect.’ She raises her hand in defense.

“It’s not a crime to say they’re attractive, only if you start to date them,” she states. I scoff and drop it, grin still on my face. She lets me off in my driveway, and lets me know she’ll pick me up in the morning if I feel well enough to go to school. 

\-------------------------------------------------

Inside the house is quiet, mom is still at work. I grab some decongestant from the medicine cabinet, and head to my room. I lay on my bed, grinning like an idiot, feeling like utter shit. Even after our “fight” and our agreement to treat each other respectfully, we couldn’t even last ten minutes without teasing each other. It felt so natural. The way his eyes crinkle when he teases me or when I tease him; the fact that I know his “secret” and wants it to keep it between us; the ride offer. I couldn’t tell if I felt hot from thinking about how Mr. Tomlinson’s arms look in a rolled up button up, or if it was the cold hitting me again. 

I close my eyes and my mind sees his fingers, finally getting to hold that cigarette. I imagine those fingers going up to his mouth as he inhales for a slow drag, and those lips, those goddamned lips, turning upward into a cocky smirk; the kind of smirk that says, “impress me.” 

And God, that name. 

Louis. 


End file.
